by Lisa Bingham
Knowing that the hint of intimacy he’d sensed had dissipated along with the steam, Gideon allowed himself to be diverted from anything too personal.
For now.
“I thought you said the potatoes were all gone?” he remarked as casually as he could, remembering her comments when she’d brought him breakfast the previous day.
“I forgot we had a small bag of them here at the Dovecote, so these truly are the last of them.”
His stomach rumbled appreciatively when he noted the caramelized edges. In Andersonville, he and the other men had endured unspeakable hunger. At times, the need for food had outweighed all other thoughts. When he’d finally been released, and had made his way back home, Gideon had been consumed with cravings for fresh fruits and vegetables.
And potatoes.
To him, no matter how far he roamed, roasted potatoes tasted like home.
“Gideon?”
Too late, he realized that he’d been focusing on images of the past.
“Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Will you take the platter to the table?”
“Of course.”
He carried the plate to the table and she followed him with a small gravy boat that she’d filled with the drippings.
Gideon waited by his chair as she fussed with the other items on the table, making sure there were spoons in the jam pots, forks in the pickles, a pitcher of cold water and a pot of hot coffee. Then finally, she seemed satisfied and eyed him quizzically. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“After you.”
“Oh!” It was a bare puff of sound, but he liked the note of pleasure it held.
She settled into the chair at the head of the table and placed her napkin in her lap. He followed suit, sitting to her right.
“Would you say grace?”
He nodded and bowed his head. “Dear Lord Above, for these bounties and all our blessings we are truly grateful. Amen.”
Lydia began filling his plate with food, tender slices of roast elk, vegetables, pickled beans, cucumbers and carrots.
“Thank you.”
He regarded his plate, detecting a slight hint of scorching in the air, but everything looked delicious, so he had to be mistaken.
“Would you like some jam for your—oh!”
She suddenly bounded to her feet and raced to the range, flinging open the door. A puff of black smoke billowed free.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, no! No, no, no!” Lydia whispered under her breath. She reached to grasp the pan, then yelped in pain, her fingers flying to her mouth.
Gideon jumped to his feet. After grasping a pair of dish towels from the counter, he quickly took the biscuits from the range and set them on top.
“They’re ruined,” Lydia mourned.
Gideon opened his mouth to offer some mollifying platitude, but there was no way to get around the truth other than a bald-faced lie.
“Yep. There’s no saving them.”
She stiffened to full height, her feathers clearly ruffled. But at the last minute, her frame seemed to sag and she laughed instead.
“At least you’re honest,” she muttered. Then she sighed. “Unfortunately, that means we’re stuck with day-old bread.”
“One of my favorite varieties.”
She reached on tiptoe to grasp a plate on one of the upper shelves and Gideon couldn’t help noting that when she lifted her arm, he was afforded the sight of her balanced on her tiptoes like a ballerina, her skirt lifting up, until he could see the delicate span of her ankles and a hint of lace from her petticoat.
“Here, let me.”
Gideon easily grasped the plate which held a loaf covered with a dishcloth. “Do you want to take it straight to the table?”
“Yes.”
By the time he was seated again, Lydia had retrieved a knife, and she cut thick slices of bread.
“Take one of the inner pieces where they’re soft.”
He did as he was told, slathering it liberally with butter and then jam.
“That’s Iona’s cherry-berry jam. It’s really delicious.”
“And which one is yours?” he asked as he gestured to the various pots.
She seemed to flush and he wondered at her embarrassment.
“I’m afraid we used the last of mine.”
She offered him a dazzling smile that left him feeling even more suspicious, so he decided to test the subject. “I imagine that you, of all people, concoct jams with entirely unusual flavors. What kinds do you make?”
Sure enough, the woman regarded him with the blank stare of a hare being sighted by its prey. He could nearly see her squirm.
“Strawberry with...apple and...and thyme.”
Aha. So, the indomitable Lydia Tomlinson had never made jam in her life, but she wasn’t willing to admit it. Did that mean there were other chinks to her armor?
“This roast is delicious. What sorts of spices did you use?”
Again, her eyes remained wide and blank. Even so, he could nearly see the cogs churning in her head. “Salt.”
“Mmm-hmm. What else?”
“Pepper.”
“And?”
“And sage.”
His taste buds were telling him that there wasn’t a speck of sage in the dish.
“It’s good. Really good.” Gideon knew better than to prod her any further until he’d finished his meal.
“Coffee?” she asked, her hand hovering near a tall pot.
“Do you have milk?”
The request seemed to throw her. “Yes.”
“Could I have that instead?”
She rose to retrieve a glass from the cupboard and filled it from a pitcher kept on a shelf in the pie safe.
“There you are.”
“Thank you.”
She took her seat again, bringing that same mix of lemon and gardenia that seemed to hover over her. Vaguely, he wondered if it came from a particular scent or if it was a mix of her soap and perfume combined.
“Where are you from, Lydia?”
She seemed startled by the question. “From?”
“Where were you born?”
She pushed a piece of carrot around her plate. “I was born in Virginia.”
Southern.
The moment the thought pierced his head, Gideon thrust it aside. The war was over. He, of all people, should know that.
“But I’ve lived most of my life in Boston.”
Northern.
“That’s where you lived with your aunts?”
She seemed surprised that he’d remembered. “Yes. They took me in when I was twelve.”
“Whom did you live with before that time?”
He meant the question to be little more than polite conversation, but Lydia seemed to freeze. Then, she carefully poured coffee into an elegant porcelain cup. She only answered after she’d taken a sip.
“Before then, I lived with my father who...traveled quite a bit. When it became apparent that the lifestyle wasn’t conducive to my well-being—” she shrugged “—I was sent to live with my mother’s sisters.”
“That must have been hard for your father.”
Lydia held her cup with both hands. She took another hasty sip, coughed, then admitted, “By that time, my father was...gone.”
Realizing he’d strayed into what seemed to be painful territory, Gideon altered the gist of the conversation.
“Tell me about them. Your aunts.”
A spark of light returned to those blue, blue eyes, and she smiled. “Aunt Rosie and Aunt Florence are such dears. They recently retired from a prestigious finishing school. Aunt Rosie taught art and rhetoric, Aunt Florence literature and mathematics.”
His brows rose. “That must be a rigorous school.”
/> Lydia seemed to bristle. “For women, you mean.”
“For anyone.”
That clarification seemed to mollify her.
“Did you go to college, Mr. Gault?”
Gideon reluctantly nodded. “I spent two years at West Point before the war broke out.”
“Oh.”
Again, they’d hit a dead end. Try as they might, they couldn’t seem to find a place to land without hitting unseen emotional impediments. Not wanting to regress into their usual verbal battlefield, Gideon tried to steer away from anything personal at all. He regaled her with funny tales about Creakle and Smalls, and the latest news about the twins that Willow and Charles had adopted.
All too soon, even that wellspring ran dry. Unfortunately, with each minute that passed, Gideon’s enjoyment over spending time in Lydia’s company began to shift into a vague suspicion. The table that had been set for two, the continued absence of the other women, the savory meal and Lydia’s attempts to steer him away from the subject of cooking and anything at all related to her past, were enough to inform him that he’d been brought here for a reason.
But what?
For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what that purpose might be. If he hadn’t known better, he would think that Lydia was attempting to “exert her feminine wiles” in order to sway his opinion about allowing the women to live in the mining camp. But so far, she hadn’t brought the subject up at all.
Then again, he was probably the last person on earth she would ever try to woo into joining her side.
Once his stomach was full, he leaned back in his seat and laced his hands over his satisfied belly.
“That was a delicious meal, Lydia. You’re a fine cook.”
Again, a hint of color touched her cheeks. Unlike Gideon, she’d merely toyed with her food, pushing it from one side of the plate to the other.
“The other women seem to be taking longer than you’d thought.”
“Coffee?” She reached for the pot, then grimaced. “It’s probably cold by now. I’ll heat this one up and get the other one.”
She jumped to her feet and hurried to the range where she set the pot on one of the burners, then used a dish towel to carry a smaller one to the table.
After such a delicious meal, Gideon didn’t have the heart to tell her that he rarely drank coffee. His years in the Army had cured him of that particular predilection. Too many hours in the saddle augmented with strong black coffee to keep him awake, and ersatz substitutes made from toasted grains or beans in Andersonville had put him off the dark brew. If he had his way, he much preferred a tall glass of milk or cold spring water.
“What sorts of questions did they have?”
Lydia regarded him blankly. “Questions?”
“You said the women had questions about the journey. That’s why you invited me here.”
“Oh, yes. I... I’d really better let them ask you. They should be back at any moment.” She went to pour more coffee into his mug, only to discover that it was still full. “Would you like me to get you a new cup? O-or I could dump this one out.”
He shook his head. “No thanks. I’m fine. Really. I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”
Once again, she seemed to blink at him like a startled hare.
“W-would you like some cocoa?”
“No. But thank you.”
“Tea?”
“I’m not much for hot drinks once the weather gets warm.”
“Oh.”
She set the coffeepot back on the range, then returned to sink into her chair. Her eyes grew curiously guarded and she slumped in her chair as if he’d just kicked her favorite puppy.
“I probably won’t be able to stay much longer. I’ve got an errand that I need to run before I head back to the mines.”
He thought of the light he’d seen two nights ago and the warm ashes he’d found the following morning. Even though he knew the errand was probably useless, he couldn’t help thinking that he should sweep the area, one last time, and see if he could pick out a trail. If he could assure himself that the person responsible had headed away from the mine, maybe he could put his suspicions to rest.
“Did you tell the girls they should start packing?”
“Yes.”
Since she didn’t elaborate, he prodded, “So have they? Started packing?”
“No. Not yet. They wanted to talk to you first.”
“I’ll try to drop by later this evening if I can. In the meantime, warn the women that they won’t be able to take everything with them at first. They’ll have to pack their trunks, label them, then store them here in the Dovecote. Tell them they can only take one small bag or trunk with their most necessary items. As soon as the weather clears and it’s easier for us to get to one of the railheads, we’ll ship the rest of their belongings to them.”
Something in his words seemed to bring the starch back into her posture.
“But you can’t do that! If they do as you ask, they could arrive at their destinations with little more than the clothing on their backs!”
“I know it’s inconvenient for them, but—”
“Inconvenient? It’s impossible! These women have no guarantees that the men they’ve agreed to marry will still be at those destinations, or if they’ve found other brides, or if they’ve changed their minds about marrying them at all! If you keep their things, they’ll be marooned at these far-flung outposts until the rest of their belongings arrive!”
“I understand that. Honestly, I do. But you don’t seem to realize the difficulty we’ll have getting the women through the pass and on their way. To add hundreds of trunks to that endeavor—”
“Hundreds of trunks,” she scoffed.
“Yes, hundreds. We have over fifty women, two families, the railway crew and several farmers and salesmen to evacuate. I’d say my estimation is far too conservative. If each one of those people had only two trunks, that’s well over a hundred trunks—and you know most of the women brought more than that on their trip to the territories.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“How many trunks did you bring, Lydia?”
“We weren’t talking about me, per se. I would have an easier time waiting for my belongings—”
“How many, Lydia?”
She was the picture of resistance, lips tight, hands clasped in her lap. But she finally relented and mumbled, “Thirteen.”
Sure that he hadn’t heard right, he said, “How many?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen!”
“But I’ve given away a lot of clothing since then, and used up many of my original supplies. I’m sure I have less than a half dozen to worry about.”
“A half dozen! At that rate, our estimate has shot up to nearly three hundred trunks.”
“Not everyone will have that many.”
“But some will have more.”
She reluctantly conceded that point.
“Even you would have to admit that this mining community doesn’t have enough teams and wagons to haul that much baggage out of the valley, let alone the resources to get through a pass that will be choked with mud and melting snow.”
“You could let some of the women stay. For good.”
Gideon scrubbed his face with his hands. “We’ve been over and over that argument. Ezra Batchwell won’t allow it. Not now, not ever.”
“But isn’t there some way that we could force him to see reason? Think of the community this could become. Instead of a sterile, joyless, male-only, bachelor-laden...hovel—”
“Oh, come on now!”
“Yes, hovel. Even you have to admit that before the women came, the cook shack, the Miners’ Hall—even the Meeting House—were caked in mud and dust and grime.”
She had a point there.
“Since the w
omen have been in Bachelor Bottoms, we’ve brought cleanliness, and order, and...and beauty. Even more than that, we’ve brought a measure of civility that has encouraged the men to wipe their feet and use their napkins, and...and...”
If Gideon hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Lydia’s voice had grown slightly choked at the end.
“Be that as it may,” Gideon said slowly, gently. “Ezra Batchwell will not change his mind. Many before you have tried, and I would wager that many after you will do the same. But the man is adamant in keeping his rules.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does the man hate us so much?”
Gideon sighed. “It’s not that he hates you or any of the other women.”
She snorted and he had to admit that the ladies had plenty of evidence to the contrary.
“He simply loves his mine more. And anything he perceives could interfere with the workings of the mine is forbidden as far as he’s concerned.”
“But there has to be a way to alter his way of thinking.”
Gideon searched his words carefully before saying, “How? By fixing him a fancy dinner and charming him with your feminine companionship?”
She blanched, giving Gideon proof that this meal had been a setup from the very beginning. Lydia hadn’t invited him to speak with the other women. She hadn’t even invited him for personal reasons. This had been an attempt to butter him up and sway him into joining the women’s protest.
A shard of disappointment sank deep into his chest, but he pushed it away. He had to remember that this had been a business meeting, pure and simple. He was more than capable of keeping things on a formal footing.
Pushing his chair back, he strode across the room and swept his hat from the hall tree.
“You and your women are fighting a war that can’t be won, Lydia. You can bat your eyes and coo and sashay, but it won’t do any good. Even though the lot of you have half the camp twined around your little fingers.” He pointed his hat in her direction. “But it won’t work. Batchwell would be willing to fire all of us and start from scratch if it would keep his precious mine the way it is.”
